


In the Woods and Winter

by motionalocean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motionalocean/pseuds/motionalocean
Summary: When Eskel last saw Geralt on the Path, there had been something new and tentative sparking between them, but they'd been pulled in opposite directions before they could explore it more. Now that they're both on the way to Kaer Morhen, they have all winter to figure it out - provided they make it through a snow storm and swarm of harpies.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	In the Woods and Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This is for eredins-a-king-aint-he, who asked for wintering at Kaer Morhen, with some fluff and angst. Happy holidays, giftee! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to the mods of the event, plus EskelChopChop for the beta and Ellen for the pep-talk. Any remaining errors are my own.

Eskel woke to a surprised shout. He rolled over, fingers moving to the sign for Quen before he even opened his eyes.

A stable boy was standing at the entrance to Scorpion’s stall, eyes wide and rounded. He held a shovel out in front of himself, but clearly knew it wouldn’t do much.

“Easy, lad,” Eskel said, keeping his hands far from his swords. He cast an irritated look at Scorpion, who pawed innocently at the ground and lifted his nose to sniff for treats. Useless watch-horse. “We came in last night. I didn’t want to wake the house.”

“Mistress Braeden doesn’t like strangers in her barn, especially ones that haven’t paid.” He shifted nervously. 

Eskel tilted his head and looked the boy up and down. He was young, but shaggy hair falling over large ears reminded him of –“Are you Janin’s boy?”

The lad straightened, though his eyes remained suspicious. “That’s my da! You know him?”

Eskel sat up on his bedroll. “That I do. He sells the best herbs in the Kaedwen Valley. I’ve been buying from him for longer than you’ve been alive. Two years back I helped him with a curse on his drying racks, maybe you remember that?”

The boy’s eyes darted around the stall, stopping on his swords. “You’re the witcher! Da told us that story. He sent me away to my cousin’s when it happened. Most stories tell of the White Wolf, but Da said he's not the only one. Do you know him? Is he as heroic as you?”

Eskel laughed. “Of course I know him, he’s my –” he stumbled over the word, suddenly feeling like it didn’t fit, but he couldn’t find another that worked better “– brother. Well, we were raised together, anyway. See? Both from the School of the Wolf.” He held out his medallion and the boy stepped closer to see.

“Woah! And you can fight with two swords? What’s the biggest monster you’ve killed?”

The questions came rapid-fire then, the boy’s suspicions quickly assuaged. Eskel basked in the sweetness and exuberance of his innocence, and answered as best he could.

“Alright, lad, storytime’s over,” he said finally, when daylight started creeping through the cracks in the walls. “I’ve yet to eat. Do you have chores to do, or can you run tell Mistress Braeden that the witcher Eskel will be in to break his fast?”

\--

After a hearty meal – Mistress Braeden always took good care of travelers, it was why her inn was so busy even close to winter – Eskel walked into town proper. The market square was just starting to come to life, seasonal venders raising awnings and laying out their wares. A few shopkeepers called out a greeting, but most ignored him in their barking. Dual swords always resulted in mixed responses in town, even one that he passed through every year.

His first stop was Rauly’s General Store for Vesemir’s standing winter order. She looked up with a wide smile as Eskel pushed the door open.

“Eskel!” Rauly was half a hand shorter than Eskel, slender through the shoulders and hips. Her dress billowed beyond her slight frame. She eyed his armor with hands on her waist. “How is one supposed to hug you with those great big spikes coming out of you, seriously.” She leaned in carefully for a kiss in the air next to his cheek, which he returned.

“It’s good to see you, Rauly. How have things been?”

“Oh, you know. Trying to be as big-city as this small town will let me. No one wants to buy the cool shit I get from Ard Carraigh, let alone anything from Redania. And if I can’t sell it, I can’t stock it, which means I can’t sample it.” She pouted, and waved a hand at the bag hanging from Eskel’s shoulder. “Did you bring me anything from the coast? I heard rumors about new fashion out west, is it really warm enough there to wear that thin of cloth?”

Eskel shook his head. “Heck if I know. I wouldn’t wear it, that’s for sure. But then, nothing’s warm enough for me except Lyria in summer.”

“You do choose the oddest place to winter, in that case.”

“Didn’t exactly choose it,” Eskel reminded her, wryly. She ducked her head in chagrin and started to apologize. “Naw, that’s not fair. I could winter down south, I don’t think anyone would begrudge me that. But someone needs to look after everything, and we both know that’s not gonna be Lambert.”

Rauly laughed. “No, indeed. He’s a rowdy one, for sure.”

“Speaking of taking care of business – how long will it take you to scrounge up Vesemir’s order? I’m hoping to leave before the next snow.”

“Better hurry in that case, word is there’s a big’un coming in.  _ Tsk _ .” She shook her head. “I guess I’ll have to wait for spring to have a good sit-down drink with you, eh? Your order’s been picked up already.”

“Lambert?” Eskel asked, confused. Lambert returned to Kaer Morhen like clockwork, the last of the season, always cutting a fine line between fashionably late and frozen in a snowstorm. Definitely never early enough to pick up the supplies.

“No, it was the other one, Geralt. Haven’t seen him around in a couple years, was starting to worry.”

Eskel sucked in a breath. “Are you sure?”

“What’s there to be sure about? Hair of white, eyes of yellow, sword of silver and steel? You think I don’t know the White Wolf when he walks into my shop?”

Geralt. Geralt was  _ on his way to Kaer Morhen _ .

“When was he here?” he asked, too urgently. Rauly gave him a side-eye.

“Left three days ago, that mare of his and a mule of mine both with saddlebags fit to burst. I tried telling him he didn’t have to take it all, that you usually pick it up, but he insisted.”

Eskel finished the rest of the conversation in a daze. He was pretty sure he promised Rauly a story involving a vampire and the brothel workers who helped him take it down, and possibly a very large bottle of expensive liquor, but he couldn’t be bothered with all that right now. He thanked her, then ducked back out into the sunlight.

Geralt would be in Kaer Morhen for the winter.

He’d seen Geralt this season – just a quick job with overlapping contracts. It happened, sometimes. They didn’t exactly have defined borders for their hunting grounds. They all roamed the continent, contracts and twists of the Path leading them in different directions each year.

Eskel preferred working alone, like most witchers, he suspected. There was something pure about the tracking, then the ritual of oils and potions and decoctions, then the simplicity of the fight. Finding his body’s limit to toxicity, that knife-point of his senses where he could feel the Signs leap from his fingertips, could practically see what the monster would do before it moved, could tell exactly where to swing his sword, how to move his feet. It was a rush unlike any other substance or activity could give him. Having someone else in the fight, well… it complicated things. It was another variable to work out. Suddenly if Eskel stepped  _ here _ , and the monster moved  _ like that _ , Eskel couldn’t attack  _ there _ because someone else was already doing  _ this _ and so Eskel had to respond with  _ that _ , but the monster was responding  _ here _ , and so Eskel had to be  _ over there _ .

Witchers from other schools were the worst. Eskel had fought alongside someone from the Manticore school once, who had ended up placing a Yrden trap right under him. Eskel had barely managed to distract the spriggan with a bomb long enough to escape. The other witcher had sworn up and down that he had a plan, but Eskel wasn’t sure he hadn’t just been trying to take out the competition.

Working with Wolves was better. At least with Vesemir and Lambert Eskel could be sure they weren’t actively trying to do him in – though he wouldn’t put it past Vesemir to teach him a lesson, or Lambert to play a prank. They had the same core fighting styles, had grown up training with the same methods. But they were still another variable, had matured in different ways as they found their own personal styles away from the Wolf School template.

Geralt, though. Geralt was in his training class. Their own styles grew directly out of each other’s. They’d always had a sense of where the other was while sparring. Until Geralt’s extra mutagens, they’d always been strike for strike, each stretching themselves to try to find even a slight edge or surprise to get the upper hand. Eskel knew that they had both formed their own styles over long years on the Path, but fighting together, either sparring or side by side, felt like coming home. Like they were each an extension of the other.

This last time had been no different. But there had been something else, as well, in the quiet time as they harvested alchemical ingredients from the arachnids and their bombed nest. Like space for something new, a longing for something he didn’t know to look for. Geralt had seemed hesitant as well, just a little, as they parted ways. Eskel had wanted to ask him to stay a while, to travel the Path together. But Eskel had to get back to Scorpion and Geralt had obligations in the other direction.

“I liked this,” Geralt said, as he strapped a trophy to Roach’s tack. Eskel stroked her nose, silently thanking her for taking such good care of her witcher. “I liked seeing you. I wish we’d had more time.”

“More time not covered in spider guts?”

“Yeah. To… talk, or something.” There had been a glint in his eyes.

“Well if you ever come back to Kaer Morhen, Wolf, we can talk all winter.”

“Or something.”

Eskel tilted his head. “Or something,” he allowed, uncertain but liking the thought of a whole winter with Geralt again, whatever they were doing.

And now Geralt truly was coming home. It had been several years since he’d wintered at the keep with the others. Eskel would have worried, if not for the songs.

He wondered what Geralt thought of the songs. They were obviously embellished. Eskel couldn’t wait to pry the true stories out of him.

He wondered what Geralt thought of the songwriter. Master Dandelion, they called him. His repertoire seemed to consist of heroic adventures and dashing conquests. The former circled around Geralt, but the latter were… more ambiguous.

They must be close, for there to be so many songs. Geralt must see this Master Dandelion more than once every few years.

He didn’t know why the thought made his stomach clench. Of all the people in the world, Geralt deserved to have people beside him.

“Oy, watch it!”

Blinking hard, Eskel leapt aside. A cart passed by where he’d been standing, the driver continuing to yell at him. Eskel waved him on sheepishly.

The market was in full swing now, the roads crowded and the stalls bustling. Eskel hefted the saddlebag on his shoulder, suddenly at a loss. If Geralt had picked up supplies, what else was there to do before he left?

The idea of seeing Geralt within the week, for the entire winter, made a feeling bubble up in his chest.  _ Or something _ , he’d said. What did that mean? He wanted to know, and was afraid to know. A week was too soon, and not soon enough. He stood in the market, looking around for an answer.

A bolt of cloth caught his eye. He crossed to it before he’d even thought to, and nodded graciously at the shopkeeper. 

“Morning.”

“Greetings, Master Witcher. What can I interest you in today? I’ve all manners of fibers; spun, woven and sewn.”

“Excellent work,” Eskel told him, looking over the wares. His eyes kept coming back to one piece. Not a bolt of cloth as he’d assumed, but a cloak. It was dark variegated green. Some might consider it an uneven dying, but the multiple shades continued evenly over the entire garment in a way that must have been deliberate. And throughout it, what had captured his attention in the first place, were irregular threads of amber, like sparks from a fire or twinkles of light from a distant town.

Eskel ran a hand over it carefully, expecting such a fine weave to catch against his rough callused fingers, but it was surprisingly sturdy and smooth.

“Ah, that’s a new pattern my lass has been trying out. It looks of gold, does it not?”

“It’s remarkable. My compliments to her.” 

With a questioning glance and nod of permission, Eskel picked up the cloak, letting it unfold. It was heavier than it looked, but lighter than its bulk would suggest. As it fell into the sunlight, Eskel could see winks of undyed wool in it as well, hints of white amongst the green and gold.

Geralt’s eyes had been green once, dark like a thick forest. They were amber now, of course, but sometimes when he blinked Eskel still expected to see them reopen green like a warm grove. He wondered, sometimes, if he got close enough whether he’d still see the original color amongst the gold.

“How much?” Eskel asked, and handed the coin over without question. The shopkeeper refolded the cloak carefully and Eskel tucked it into his saddlebag.

It wasn’t uncommon for witchers to exchange gifts or gear when they met on the Path or between seasons. More often than not it was the result of a bet or a round of Gwent, but not always. Eskel’s trunk at Kaer Morhen was a collection of memories. Old carvings from Lambert, tokens from people on the Path. Geralt had gone through a phase of working silver for several years, and Eskel had a collection of rings, bracelets, and pendants wrapped carefully in linen and tucked in a box (from Lambert) on the mantle in his room. In the odd years Eskel found himself unable or unwilling to travel home for the winter, he’d found many people took midwinter as a time to make and exchange gifts. No one would find it odd if Eskel arrived in Kaer Morhen with a new cloak for Geralt, especially since it had been so long. But Lambert would gripe and mope if he was left out, and Vesemir would cock an eyebrow, and hell, it looked like Eskel had more shopping to do.

\--

He left town the next afternoon, to warnings of a storm in the coming days. He pushed Scorpion to his limit, hoping to catch up to Geralt, who he knew would be slowed and hindered by the pack-mule. He didn’t find Geralt. Instead, he found a dozen harpy corpses on the cliff trail and the first big snow of the season.

\--

A week after leaving town, Scorpion plodded wearily through the gates of Kaer Morhen. His coat was streaked with sweat, his legs muddy, and his breath fogged in the icy air. Eskel knew he was exhausted, knew he pushed him too hard that last day, but he told himself that Scorpion would have pushed on to his familiar stable even if given the opportunity to rest.

Eskel was exhausted as well. His plain gray cloak, heavy and felted and oiled to keep out the snow, hung heavy over his armor. He wasn’t entirely sure it was keeping him dry anymore, but at least it kept off the wind.

The trip to Kaer Morhen was never easy. Even in the summer, with fair weather, monsters plagued the road. In the winter, racing a storm and losing, confronted with the evidence that Geralt had had to fight off a dozen harpies by  _ himself _ while hindered by an extra pack-animal and the constraints of the cliff-trail…

It wasn’t the first time Eskel had pushed through the night instead of camping in a cave on the side of the mountain, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Roach was under cover in the stable yard, nosing hay alongside the pack-mule, and Eskel breathed a sigh of relief. His memory flicked back to the section of the cliff-trail that had been caved away when he found it, the scuff-marks of hooves around it making it clear it was a new and unexpected failure. He’d  _ known _ the animals and Geralt had made it past, but knowing and seeing were two different things.

“Good girl, Roachie,” he praised her, Scorpion adding his own greeting. Geralt’s mare whickered in response. The mule flicked an ear, unimpressed.

Scorpion walked immediately to the stable door and into his stall. Eskel steeled himself to get out of the saddle. He wanted nothing more than to ride all the way to the keep’s doors, but he couldn’t begrudge Scorpion a rest. Eventually he slid off and had to grab for support as his legs faltered, muscles tight from worry and the cold. He shook them out carefully, then pulled off Scorpion’s tack and saddlebags. The horse needed a brush-down, for sure, but Eskel was already thinking of the long walk up to the keep and how if he didn’t go  _ now _ , he might just end up napping in Scorpion’s stall. He leaned into his side instead.

“You did good, bud,” Eskel told him. Scorpion turned and slobbered into the front of his cloak. “Kept us safe and got us home. Long easy winter, now.”

“Has he learned to talk back?” came a voice from the door, and Eskel turned to find his old mentor standing at the door.

“Vesemir!”

“It’s good to see you, lad.” He crossed the distance and held his arms open for a hug. Eskel fell into it gratefully. They embraced for a few seconds before Vesemir thumped him on the back, mindful of the spikes on his armor. 

“What are you doing getting in this early, in these conditions? Too good to camp out in the snow?”

“The storm… Geralt… Harpies,” Eskel explained, entirely incoherently. “There was blood on the trail, is he…?”

Vesemir scoffed and shook his head. He looked almost like he wanted to give Eskel another cuff, this time to the back of the head. Eskel was glad he didn’t. He might not have stayed upright. “That’s what kept you pushing through the night? Thought I taught you better tracking than that. Geralt’s fine, he’s sleeping it off up in the keep.”

Sleeping it off didn’t quite equate to fine,  _ fine _ meant there wasn’t anything to sleep off, but Eskel was still glad to hear it.

“It’s been a long time since he took the cliff trail,” Eskel muttered, defensive. 

“Worrying about the White Wolf?” Vesemir chuckled. “Maybe now you know how I’ve felt all these years, sitting up in this keep wondering which of my pups will come home.”

“The White Wolf. Right.” That damn name. “He’s just… It’s Geralt, you know?”

Vesemir’s face softened. “I know, lad. Don’t fret, you’re both here safe. Get yourself up to the keep; I’ll make sure Scorpion’s well-tended. Can you carry your gear?”

“What kind of witcher do you think I am?” Eskel scoffed, though he secretly wanted to let Vesemir carry his bags as well.

“A tired one, pup.” Vesemir gave him a nudge towards the door. “Go see your Wolf’s in one piece and get yourself to bed. There’s stew in the kitchen. Chores start tomorrow.”

Hefting his saddlebags over his shoulder with a weary sigh, Eskel went.

\--

The walk to the keep was as long and cold as Eskel had anticipated, but the promise of a warm meal, a warm bed, and Geralt kept him upright and on his feet. He pushed the keep door open with a grunt and could hear it squealing in return.

_ Oil the front doors _ , he added to his mental list of chores for the winter.

The great hall was, to put it mildly, in some disarray. The entrance hall opened up to a massive vaulted ceiling held up by stone pillars. The vast space was broken up by cabinets, bookshelves, crates, and furniture serving as odd partitions. To the left was an indoor sparring ring with dummies and a cleared floor. Beyond that was a study area, books and parchment laid out on Vesemir’s favorite writing desk. At the far end of the hall was the fireplace, a great roaring thing set in the wall between the main hall and the kitchen that kept both warm. Next to it were tables for eating. And in the near corner were cots lined up for anyone who didn’t want or couldn’t get up the stairs to their room.

Geralt was laid out on one of the cots, covered in mounds of blankets so that only his silver hair peeked out, untidy strands against the pillow. Eskel hurried over, dripping melted snow off his cloak. He dropped the saddlebags at the end of a cot and stood watching Geralt’s face. His skin was healthy and warm. His face was relaxed, his lips parted gently in sleep. Eskel could hear him breathing. Slowly, but standard for him.

“Geralt you idiot, what were you thinking?” Eskel breathed, not actually wanting to wake him. He sat heavily on the next cot. He wanted to reach out, to run his fingers through the milky locks of hair. He pulled his gauntlets off, then flung the dripping cloak away and started stripping off the rest of his armor. It was weirdly familiar, watching Geralt sleep. The lines on his face had relaxed and despite the inevitable wear of age and monsters, it reminded Eskel of when they were boys, before the weight of responsibility had settled on them. 

If Geralt was always this peaceful in sleep, Eskel considered that maybe he should watch him do it more often.

He stripped down to his underthings, but realized with a curse that they were also wet, from either sweat or insidious snow. Rummaging through the chest at the foot of the cot earned him a loincloth, musty but soft when he tied it on, and some thick blankets that he stretched out over himself on the cot.

He turned his face to Geralt, and closed his eyes to sleep.

\--

He woke to loud clanging and a feeling of being intensely overheated. He tensed at the noise, then felt the weight of the blankets and the absence of clothes or armor and remembered. Kaer Morhen. Home, for lack of a better word or place to fit it. 

He blinked his eyes open. He was still facing the other cot, which was now empty. He thrashed at the blankets to free himself and pushed up on an elbow to look around.

The noise was coming from the other side of the great hall, the open space that was marked off for sparring. Vesemir and Geralt were going at it, practice swords and tunics, no armor. As he watched, Vesemir hooked his sword under Geralt’s hilt and wrenched it away. The sword went flying and Geralt rolled clear.

Vesemir handed Geralt back his sword, hilt-first, with a grin.

“White Wolf’s still no match for that move, eh?”

Geralt grabbed his sword back with a scowl. “Maybe I could protect against it if you’d deign to teach it to me, old-timer.”

“Ah, you’ll figure it out one of these days.”

Eskel pushed the mountain of blankets away and shivered as the cold hit his warmed skin. He felt clammy, and stiff, and very much like he wanted a bath. He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the cot and pushed to his feet. Ok, maybe he’d pushed a little too hard on the trail to get here.

Vesemir and Geralt looked over at the noise.

“Eskel!” Geralt called, and then he was running over, dropping his sword on a table, and opening his arms. Eskel barely got his own arms up in time to return the embrace. They staggered together a little with the force of the impact.

Eskel breathed in, his nose close to Geralt’s neck. Thoughts ran through his mind, surprisingly strong:  _ vulnerable, protect, who else do you let this close or is this my spot, mine _ . He could feel Geralt doing the same to him. They didn’t release for a good long while, until Eskel suddenly realized he was standing there in just a loincloth.

“Wolf,” he acknowledged, stepping back. His fingers lingered on Geralt’s waist. He thought maybe Geralt’s fingers lingered on his shoulders, but it could just be that he wasn’t expecting the movement. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt tells him. “What the hell were you thinking, taking the cliff trail in a storm?”

Eskel scoffed. “What were  _ you _ thinking, taking the cliff trail first of the season with a pack animal?”

“I was thinking I wanted to get here before the storm!”

“Well I was thinking I’d like to make sure harpies didn’t carry off you or your damn pack animal!”

They glared at each other for a moment. Geralt’s eyes were intense, but there was a crinkling around them, a softness that Eskel couldn’t fight against.

“Ah, hell, Wolf, you worried me is all,” he muttered.

“Back atcha. Dumbass.”

Eskel pushed at his shoulder. Geralt let himself be moved. Eskel cleared his throat. “You’re actually alright? Sparring with Vesemir, this early?”

Geralt’s eyes twinkled. “I’m alright. Need a bath, though. You coming?”

Eskel was, in fact, in rather dire need of a bath. “Yeah, sure.”

\--

The hot springs under Kaer Morhen were legendary amongst witchers. Or they had been, once, when there were witchers of other schools who cared. Now they were just high on the list of reasons to keep coming back in the winter. They were fed from under the mountain, the water initially too hot to touch. The builders of Kaer Morhen had created a set of pools for the water to spill into, gradually cooling until it splashed out down the cliff side to the Gwenllech River far below.

Eskel followed Geralt down the stone staircase to the lower levels, eyes watching the muscles under his shirt. He didn’t move as if he were injured. He moved with grace and efficiency, a litheness to his form that Eskel couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

Couldn’t, that is, until they reached the steaming hot springs and Geralt suddenly started stripping. This wasn’t an oversight – obviously they were bathing together, obviously Geralt would be naked. Obviously  _ Eskel _ would be naked. They’d bathed together hundreds of times over the years. 

It just felt different.

_ Or something, _ Geralt had said.

Trying to pull himself together, Eskel turned towards the nook where they kept the bathing material – soaps and oils, towels, washing cloths. He opened vials and unwrapped soaps idly to smell – all were unscented, or with the mildest of fragrances – as he listened to Geralt easing into the spring behind him. When he deemed it safe, he grabbed his favorites – a mellow citrus for himself, soft and musky for Geralt – and turned back around.

That was a miscalculation, of course, because now Geralt had nowhere to look but at  _ him _ as he undressed. He couldn’t very well ask Geralt to look away.

Well, so long as the situation was unavoidable, he might as well ride into it headfirst. He placed his selections on a ledge reachable from Geralt’s chosen pool and then, heart beating slightly faster than normal, unlaced his loincloth and let it fall. 

He’d expected at least a hint of a modesty turn, Geralt busying himself with the soap or something, but apparently Geralt didn’t find it necessary. Eskel could feel his eyes on him the entire time. He wasn’t sure whether it was that or the sudden heat of the spring that had goosepimples running up his skin. As he slipped fully into the water, he looked to Geralt’s face.

The other witcher was staring. There was no other way to explain the way his eyes had to come upwards from Eskel’s torso – or  _ lower? _ – to meet his. 

And, oh, that was a look Eskel recognized. It was directed at him often enough, in taverns across the continent, by folks of all sorts, human and not. It usually had a hardness to it, though, an excitement in anonymity, pure desire and intent. Geralt, though, had a softness about his look. It seemed to say ‘I know all of you, and I want to know more.’

He found himself wishing he’d looked back. He flicked his glance over Geralt’s arms and shoulders in lieu of the missed view.

Geralt smirked and opened his mouth, but Eskel was across the pool before any sound could come out.

“What the hell, Geralt, I knew you were hurt.”

There, on the outside of his bicep curling up to the back of his shoulder, were fresh pink lines. Eskel would bet his best Gwent card they matched up with a harpy’s talons. He ran his fingers around them gently, assessing the damage. With Geralt’s rate of healing they were probably a day or two old, which matched the timeline. They were honestly fairly healed, no longer raw or even scabbed, just a warmer color than the skin surrounding them.

“You were sparring with Vesemir with these? You’ve got the whole winter to condition, you couldn’t take a damn day to heal?”

He half expected Geralt to pull away from the contact, but to his surprise Geralt allowed the scrutiny, leaned into it even. “I had a rest day. While you were out freezing in the storm and working yourself into a lather over a tiny little harpy fight.”

Eskel scowled. “There were at least a dozen corpses that I could see. I’d hardly call that tiny.” He studied the marks for a second, then turned away. “Stay there.” 

He vaulted out of the pool, nudity no longer a concern, and rummaged around the supplies shelf until he found a particular jar.

“Scar ointment?” Geralt asked with a hint of amusement. “Think I’ve turned vain in my old age?”

“Shut up,” Eskel said, returning to the pool. He set the jar on the ledge and threw a bar of soap at him. “You’re lucky you know how to duck. Not everyone can pull off a face like mine.”

“Hey, now.” Geralt stood up, his entire torso on display. Eskel raked his gaze over shoulders, pecs, abs, the taper of his waist, before he realized Geralt had stepped forward and was sidling up against him. He felt a hand against the side of his face, feather-light against the scars. Geralt’s fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck and his palm hovered there, imperceptibly close.

Eskel tensed. They were of a height but for an absurd moment he felt like he needed to look upward. Geralt’s hand on him made him feel cherished.

“I’m quite partial to your face.”

Eskel licked his lips. “Should get your head checked, then.”

“Nah, Vesemir knocked some sense into it this morning.” 

“Oh yeah?”

His touch was still too light, starting to tickle. Eskel reached up and leaned into it, trapping Geralt’s hand against his face. He couldn’t look away from those yellow eyes, the slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Said something about how every day we danced around each other this winter, he’d make us run the Killer.”

“So really this is you resting.”

“Thought you’d approve of that.”

“Oh, I do,” Eskel growled, everything falling into place. He pushed back against Geralt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the muscles, the dimples of old scars, scars that Eskel wanted to soothe with balms and kisses even as Geralt preened over them. Geralt stepped back, though Eskel knew he could stand his ground, and it made the spark low in Eskel’s belly ignite. He crowded forward, their feet tangling.

“I’m going to rest you so hard you won’t be able to move for a week. And then we’ll go about teaching you how to defend properly against a swarm of harpies. And then I’ll rest you hard for another week. And then I’ll have you add another entry in your bestiary about harpies. And then I’ll rest you again, maybe for two weeks if you’re good. And then maybe we’ll move on to forktails.”

Geralt’s breath was coming hard, swirling the steam around them. His lips twitched. “Are you gon –”

“Yeah I’m gonna keep harping on it,” Eskel cut in, refusing to let the pun pass. Geralt grinned in response.

“Damn, but I’ve missed you, Eskel.”

“You too, Wolf. Now can I kiss you, or what?”

“Please.”

Eskel surged forward. He turned his head initially, keeping the twisted skin of his scars away, but Geralt used his hand still on the side of his face to pull him in fully. He licked at the uneven skin and Eskel sank into it. Their stubble scratched together, a delightful contrast to their slick lips.

Eskel moaned appreciatively as Geralt’s hand moved to cup the back of his head and hold him in place. He slid his arms around Geralt’s torso, then shifted his weight to push a knee between his Geralt’s. Their skin slid together, eased by the water of the hot-spring below and sweat and steam above.

Geralt made a breathy sound and seemed to falter. Eskel planted one hand on the rim of the pool behind Geralt’s back and tightened the other around him.

“I’ve got you, Wolf.” 

Geralt seemed to relax into the hold, and Eskel felt the weight of his trust like a heavy warm blanket. He rubbed his hips forward against Geralt’s and grinned at the responding moan before bringing their lips back together.

Kissing Geralt was like sparring with him, at first, both of them trying to get the upper hand, probing and testing each other. Unlike when they fought, though, Geralt seemed to give at the slightest hint of pushback. His mouth opened at Eskel’s gentle persistence, their tongues twining together leisurely. When Eskel pulled back to nibble at his jawline, he tipped his head back to give access to his throat, which Eskel took full advantage of, peppering it with kisses and scrapes of his teeth. 

Neither of them were hard, the water too hot to move things in that direction, but everything felt heightened regardless. Geralt’s leg hair brushed against the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. Geralt’s fingers scratched gently at the nape of his neck. Their leg muscles flexed against each other to keep balance against the slight current of water moving through the pool. Geralt may have been responsive, but he was by no means passive. His free hand roamed over Eskel’s back, between his shoulder blades, down to squeeze at his ass.

Eskel lost himself to the sensations for a while, reveling in the feel of them coming together. How right it felt, how inevitable, and yet new and exciting. He’d never known before what Geralt’s skin tasted like, or what sounds he’d make when Eskel breathed with his teeth against his pulse point, or how his fingers would tug in his hair and then relax when he bit down. 

Time passed. They slowed down after a while, the heat of the pool and the room and each other turning them lethargic. Eskel’s stomach growled eventually, loud and unexpected, and they broke away from each other with a laugh.

“Guess I’m not enough for your appetite, eh?” Geralt joked.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Eskel gave a last tug against Geralt’s hair and sank down into the water. “Vesemir did offer me stew, though.” He grabbed the soap and started scrubbing himself down.

“Stew? That’s weak. I’ll cook you up a roast every night.”

“I’m not sure you could compete with Lambert’s insults on that front.” 

Geralt sputtered, and Eskel dipped in quickly to leave a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe focus on the appetites they don’t satisfy?” he suggested, earning a grin.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

\--

Later that night, after a hot meal and many mugs of ale, Vesemir bid them both good night with a nod and a knowing smile. Eskel caught Geralt’s eyes, feeling the tension between them. He wasn’t tired yet.

“Storm’s let up, I think,” Geralt commented.

Eskel focused, hearing Vesemir’s muttering but no more howl of the wind. 

“Want to see if the stars are out?” Eskel asked.

Geralt gave him a look.

“We can talk, or something.”

Geralt chuckled. “Don’t we have all winter to stargaze?”

“Sure, but I have something for you and this is a good excuse not to wait. Meet you at the tower roof?”

They parted ways, Geralt to take their mugs back to the kitchen, Eskel to haul his gear up to his room. He lit a fire in the hearth to get the room heating, then started unpacking. Clothes and equipment to be mended in one pile, to be cleaned in another. The gifts he’d bought the week prior he piled on a shelf by the door. The cloak for Geralt. A dagger for Lambert. A dagger for Geralt, because he’d seen the horse-head pommel and thought of Roach. A book on the fighting traditions of Ard Skellig for Vesemir. An empty journal for Geralt, because it had a giant white wolf stitched into the cover and he knew how quickly Geralt went through bestiaries. A set of fletches for Coen, from an arch-griffin contract two months prior. Arrowheads for Geralt. Eskel didn’t have a reason for those. They were just for Geralt.

He looked at the uneven piles and huffed a laugh. So much for keeping things fair. Ah, well, he always had the excuse that Geralt had been gone for years.

He grabbed the cloak and made his way up the steps to the top of the tower. Geralt had already propped the trap door open and cleared the snow away with Aard. He was laying out blankets on the open roof. Eskel stopped at the top of the ladder, taking a moment to admire his backside. He knew Geralt knew he was there.

“Hey,” Eskel said eventually, climbing up the last few steps. He hadn’t looked his fill, but it was sinking in that he’d have all winter, and maybe longer, to admire him.

Geralt turned, his eyes sparkling in the torchlight that came through the trap door.

Eskel held out the cloak. “For you,” he said, suddenly feeling a tad self-conscious.

Their fingers brushed as Geralt took the bundle of cloth, and then Geralt was grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer. They kissed, softly, tentatively. For the open sky to see. When he pulled back, Geralt’s lips were pink and his eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

“Thank you.”

Eskel could tell he was trying to unwrap it carefully, but he dropped a fold and the cloak tumbled open. The light caught on the white and yellow threads, making them seem to dance against the dark green as Geralt swirled it around his shoulders

Geralt looked up, and Eskel’s breath caught. He was right, how his eyes matched the gold. When he pulled the hood up, Eskel swore he saw a flash of green in them as well. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, again, and pulled him in for another kiss.

They settled on their backs on the blankets, side by side. A flick of Eskel’s fingers extinguished the torch, and the sky with its flecks of distant flame appeared above them.

The wind had passed with the storm, but the air was still quite chill. Geralt carefully unwrapped himself and then tossed the cloak over both of them. Eskel huddled into his side, hunting for shared warmth. It was awkward for a second, shoulders and elbows getting in the way, until they found how they fit together. Eskel pressed a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth and hummed as Geralt deepened it.

He didn’t know how this thing between them would work on the Path. Already it was difficult to conceive of parting ways. But Eskel knew they had all winter to figure that out. And in the meantime, they’d keep each other warm.


End file.
